Last night I had a dream. A variation on a theme. I had just gotten up in the morning (in the dream, that is), had walked down the hall toward the kitchen, and was startled at the sight of my brother coming down the stairs from the top floor. My brother, you see is dead. Has been since 1982. And yet he persists. In my dreams he is never dead, and in fact seems never to have so much as heard of death.
But anyway I was startled, shaken.
What the hell? I said. What are you doing here?
He seems always to have patience with me.
I've been here all along, he says.
This makes me feel oddly sheepish. I feel confused, vaguely uneasy. I keep waiting for him to share, or at least to acknowledge by bewilderment.
But he does not. And never will.